Pulling The Strings
by Carol J Forrester
Summary: D'artagnan lies dying with no reason as to why. Searching for answers Porthos finds himself uncovering mysteries surrounding the young Gascon that neither he, Aramris, or Athos can quite believe. D'artagnan's family is involved somehow but nothing about the situation and its are clear but the truth must be uncovered if they are to save D'artagnan. Yet time, is not on their side.
1. Chapter One

_**I am terrible at starting Fanfictions and not finishing them. But hopefully this will be a break from the norm as I'm only planning on writing five sections to this story, the final four being somewhat longer than this first entry. Any comments or criticism are welcome and I hope you will also check out some of my other writing if you have the time.**_

Where Turmoil And Terror Begins

He'd been winning, he was sure of it. The opponent had afforded him every opportunity possible to end the contest quickly and devastatingly easily. In the end he'd simply dragged it out to avoid embarrassing the young noble too badly and to could throw in a little extra sword work. The boy, Phillip, had family in wealthy and powerful places, it wouldn't have done for d'Artagnan to have the boy on his arse after the first five minutes and it wasn't difficult to judge where the next strike would be.

Brought up on stories of great musketeers and desperate to prove himself Phillip had appeared at the garrison early that morning. He shifted from foot to foot, knotting his dark hair nervously through his fingers as he waited for D'artagnan to unsheathe his sword. The boy's stance was a little off and the tremors running through his arm could be seen in the waver of his sword. d'Artagnan put it down to nerves and allowed the boy the first move, side-stepping a rushed lung and sweeping the next blow away with ease. Grinning her kept his eye on the boy, smile widening as the next blow came lashing forward.

Athos had glanced to the side, turning his head to say something to Aramis and looked back with laughter playing around his lips. With Phillip between them d'Artagnan could just about see him, his head visible over Phillip's shoulder.

"d'Artagnan!" Athos' voice rang out across the garrison and d'Artagnan suddenly felt the world wrench violently beneath him. In front of him Phillip's face danced, looming further and further above him as Phillip seemed to grow in size.

Porthos had already been moving, feet pounding the dust before Athos had, had chance to speak. Sprinting across the training grounds he'd been on his knees with Aramis still standing on the sidelines frowning. Athos wasn't been far behind and soon enough his hands joined Porthos' tearing at d'Artagnan staining shirt to get to the wound below. d'Artagnan's hand wrapped around Porthos' wrist, confusion creasing his features.

"Shit." Porthos' voice was tight, his eyes darting as he worked.

d'Artagnan heard Athos barking orders, the voice blurring as the world seemed to soften and simply lying still became a much more appealing idea. If only the others would be quiet then the situation would be rather peaceful indeed.

"-rtagnan! d'Artagnan!" Athos was trying to talk to him, hand pulling at his shoulder and sending his head lolling from one side to the other.

"I don't think he can answer Athos," said Aramis, now crouched alongside the other two.

"He can and he will! d'Artagnan!"

"Athos! You're not helping him. We need to stop him from loosing anymore blood!"  
There should have been pain d'Artagnan realised, pain and pressure, pressure from the hands clustering against his skin, doing their best to seal the cut oozing blood and pain from the wound itself. He felt none of that though. It seemed for some reason that should have worried him. He was wounded wasn't he?

There were voices again.

"Get him on the table and for God's sake fetch a bloody physician."

"The noble boy. Phillip or whatever the hell he was called. He's gone."

"Probably ran off. Must think he killed one of the King's musketeers and nearly pissed himself."

"Nah. I don't think so. I've got this feeling-"

"Later! Right now you need to be keeping pressure on that wound."

"Aramis. Do something."

"I am. I'm trying."

"Try harder!"

The last voice was Athos. d'Artagnan could tell that at least but after the words all seemed to melt into nonsense. There were shapes. Things shifting in and out of view as they moved around him. It didn't matter though. Why would any of it mattered?

"You did it then?"

Phillip nodded, careful to keep his face hidden deep in his hood as he slid the sword across the tavern table and towards the thick-set man opposite. Purpled lips pulled back two rows of blackened stumps and a forked tongue.

"That's yours laddy, a thank you gift from the boss for a job well done."

"I don't want it," Phillip mumbled, his fingers trembling as he tried to reach from his drink. He misjudged the distance and stubbed his fingers against the glass sending wine spilling across the table. The glass bounded twice and then fell to the floor where it smashed.

"Clumsy one ain't you," chuckled the man. "Don't suppose it matters now though does it?"

"Please," Phillip whimpered. "I just want this to be done with!"

The man clicked his tongue and sucked the air past his ruined teeth.

"Well you see..." he said, drawing out his words and tilting his head slightly to the left. The silver bar treaded to what was left of his right ear caught the light. "The mark ain't dead and the boss ain't gonna be happy until he is."

"But the sword," Phillip whimpered. "You said a scratch would do it!"

"I know what I said, but clearly I was incorrectly informed by the associate who so kindly supplied me with the solution employed upon that sword."

Phillip laced his fingers together and pressed his hands against the coarse wood of the table-top.

"So you still want me," he whispered, his voice wavering.

"You?" chortled the man. "Holy mother of God no! You're as useless as a wine glass in a house bare of drink! We ain't go no more need of you."

"So then what?" asked Phillip, his voice strengthening slightly.

"You go home," said the man. "And throw yourself from the top floor, of tallest tower of your father's impressive, old castle."

Underneath his hood the colour drained from Phillip's face.

"Pardon?" he squeaked.

"Well you see there was some debate over what we'd do if the D'artagnan boy was dead by the time I met you tonight. A couple of the council wavered towards mercy and letting you crawl home to your shallow, little life, but most of them were keen to see me wring the neck of any noble born who happened to step in my way.

The adam's apple in Phillip's throat bobbed.

"So you're going to kill me."

"No. You're going to kill yourself."

Athos' neck ached and he could feel the years of his age hanging across his shoulders.

"He lives friend. Be thankful for that," Aramis said, passing Athos another bowl of soup that would be set aside untouched once it had turned cold.

They sat in d'Artagnan's room at the garrison, watching the boy as he trashed against his bed sheets against the monsters in his nightmares.

"Any news from Porthos?" Athos asked, his voice cracked and brittle from forgetting to drink and sitting silently for so long.

"Not yet. He's moved into the Court of Miracles in the hope that someone he used to know might have something that will give us answers."

Athos let out a bark that was supposed to be a laugh.

"We need an antidote. Not answers."

"I know my friend but one may lead us to the other. Whatever the poison that young Phillip coated his sword with, it was vicious. I fear that if it ravages d'Artagnan for much longer then there will be no bringing him back."

"He'll die," Athos said.

"Perhaps," Aramis replied. "Or he may simply never wake, wasting until his body can no longer support life. Neither provides us with much comfort I'm afraid."

Setting aside his own soup Aramis stood and moved towards d'Artagnan's bedside.

"It is the fever that worries me most though."

d'Artagnan whimpered in his sleep. Lashing out against something that the other two men could not see and almost striking Aramis in the process. Catching hold of the boy's wrist Aramis brought it close to his own chest, holding onto it as d'Artagnan yelped as if burned and tried to wrench his limb back.

"Calm young friend." Aramis soothed, pulling the cool cloth from the bucket of water beside the bed. "There are no demons to hurt you here."

The words had no effect and d'Artagnan lashed out with his other arm, catching Aramis this time and opening a cut across his lip.

Athos stood to help, stepping forward to pull both of d'Artagnan's hands into his own.

"He must not die Aramis. He must not."


	2. Chapter Two

Burning Up And Hidden Words

Porthos kept his eyes trained on the priest in the pulpit as Philip's mother seemingly howled her lungs out in the front pew, drowning out much of what was being said. At second woman smothered in black placed her hand of the Lady Isabelle's shoulder and began to talk in whispers, her words clearly doing nothing to stem the hysterical woman's tears. In the pulpit the priest did his best to keep going with the service, despite most of his words drowning beneath Lady Isabelle's vocals.

"Such a terrible accident..." he droned, attempting to lift his voice above the noise yet again. "Taken from this life so young... a life so full of opportunity, nobility and bravery..."

At the back Porthos scowled, not noticing when Aramis slid in beside him, hat clutched in one hand and the other hidden within the folds of his jacket.

"The misery of losing one's child," whispered Aramis, causing Porthos to flinch and reach for his sword.

"You're done?" Porthos asked, recovering himself quickly. His hand fell away from his sword and he returned to leaning against the wall with his arms crossed across his chest.

"Someone had been in there before me," Aramis said. "Someone seemed to have been rather overzealous in their attempts to remove any trace of evidence that may have been in the young Philip's writings."

He passed across a burnt scrap of paper, keeping his eyes trained on the front pews of the church as Porthos took it off him. Porthos squinted at the scrap no bigger than the palm of his hand and turned it slowly to see if the angle might translate the nonsense scribbled charred paper.

"What is it?" he asked, flipping it over quickly and then looking towards Aramis confused. "I can't make a damn thing out."

"That's my point," Aramis said. "The fireplace was full of such scraps, all burnt and all useless. I doubt most of it had anything to do with d'Artagnan or the reason for his attack, but whoever ransacked young Philip's room decided better safe than sorry and made sure he destroyed anything he could."

"So you found nothing," Porthos scowled, the charred paper crumpling beneath his fingers as they curled into a fist. "What are we meant to do now then?"

"Oh I wouldn't say we have nothing," said Aramis, one hand still resting inside his jacket. It was the sort of sentence that should have been accompanied by a smile but Aramis' features remained grey and drawn. "There was a loose floorboard next to the fireplace," he said, the tendons in his arm twitching as he altered his grip on something hidden.

"So the bastard who burnt the papers wasn't as clever as he thought." Porthos grinned; hope finding its way back into his eyes. "What did you find?"

Aramis pulled his hand from his jacket, drawing out a small pocket book bound in black leather and embossed with Philip's family crest.

"He kept a diary," Aramis said. "But you're not going to like what it says."

Shrike swallowed a groan as his knees pooped beneath his weight and he slumped against the alley wall he'd just jumped from. Safely away from the mansion of that useless kid he took a moment to remember where he was and then took off at a jog. Checking back over his shoulder every now and again that whoever had come sneaking into the boy's room during the funeral wasn't following behind.

Shirke bloody hated Paris; hated any city for that matter. They all stank and everywhere you looked there was someone leaning out of a window or against a doorway watching you and everything you did. Cities held too many watchers. People who could land you in the sort of trouble that Shrike prided himself on keeping out of. By the time you knew someone was onto you it was too late to kill them off quietly and there would be someone else on your tail chasing you to the next stinking, mountain of bricks. The sooner he could be out of Paris the better.

Slowing to a walk he focused on levelling out his breathing and dropped his hands down to his sides, allowing them to swing loosely as he saunter around corners and pulled his lips into a leering smile for the washer women cluttering the streets. He was getting closer to the markets by now, the noise of hagglers creeping closer with each step.

"Take the next left," said the hooded figure that had slipped into step with Shrike somehow unnoticed. "You've been given orders."

Shrike snorted loudly, ignoring the looks it drew from the thickening crowds and he pressed forward into the centre of Paris.

"The boy's as good as dead," he growled, scowling at the way the cloaked figure managed to slip through the heaving bodies as if they weren't there.

"As good as isn't dead," the figure replied. "The Circle want dead as in dead, not as in almost or on the way."

"So what am I meant to do about it?" asked Shrike. "Those musketeers won't let anyone near one of their own, especially the three he hangs out with. Getting to him will be damn near impossible, and pointless seeing as he'll be dead by the end of the week."  
The fabric across the figure's shoulders moved and Shrike got a glimpse of a long, bent nose as the figure's shrug caused the hood to shift slightly.

"The Circle are less than confident with your abilities with poison."

Shrike spat, hitting a young woman full in the face as she made to dash past him. She made to yell but was quickly carried off by the crowds.

"They gave me the bloody poison," growled Shrike. "If it's anyone's fault the boy survived this long it's theirs."  
"They won't appreciate that," said the figure, and Shrike was given the impression that figure smiled as he spoke. "They won't appreciate that at all."

Athos brushed his hand against d'Artagnan's skin and winced at the heat pressing against his touch.

"He's getting worse," he said, speaking to the empty room and forgetting that Aramis had left with Porthos that morning to help with the investigation. That had been in the early hours but now the sun sank lower and dark clouds were rolling in from the horizon. d'Artagnan whimpered in his sleep as the thunder crept closer.

"So let me get this straight," said Porthos, leading Aramis through the warren of streets better known as the Court of Miracles. In front of them a child no older than seven scampered forward, his face smeared with mud as he led them towards the spot where Flee would be waiting. She'd sent word. Someone had seen something and they'd want to hear about it.

"You're telling me that all we know is Philip was working for someone else. We don't know who, we don't know why and we don't know what this other party would get out of killing d'Artagnan. So really, we know the same amount as we did before you found the boy's journal."

"We have a description Porthos," soothed Aramis. "It's a small improvement on the information we had already but an improvement none the less."  
"It's useless if the guy's already gone!"  
"Well let's hope he's still in Paris then," said Aramis. "If not we'll hunt him past the edges of this world and the next."

Flee wasn't stupid. She knew her numbers and she knew her letters, Porthos had taught her the basics before he'd left and afterwards she'd managed to teach herself the rest of what she managed to learn. It wasn't the most useful skill in the Court but she was proud, especially when it gave her an edge over those who did think she was just some idiot, thief girl from the rot of Paris.

The city had been alive with chatter over the young Musketeers nearly killed by the noble boy who'd then tragically fallen to his death when walking in ruins close to the outskirts. Flee kept her mouth shut and listened to the chatter, nodding now and again as others passed by her, each dropping something new and different for Flee to consider.

"I can't find a name," she said, running one hand through her hair as she spoke to Porthos and his friend. They were stood in the same room that Porthos had been brought to when they snatched him from the court house and his impending execution. "She's a ghost," Flee said.

"What has this woman got to do with d'Artagnan and that attack?" Aramis asked, he glanced around uneasily, not seeing anyone in the room with them but not foolish enough to believe that there wouldn't be someone listening at the doorway.

Flee shrugged.

"She's muttered about by only a few, and those are not the sort of people you want to be having dealings with. They are the most dangerous of the dangerous and if they ever had morals to begin with then they sold them at the first opportunity."

"But she wants d'Artagnan dead?" Porthos was more at home than Aramis, the Court didn't hold the same threats that Aramis saw.

"Not kill, capture," said Flee. "Whoever tried to kill d'Artagnan would seem to be working towards hurting her plans in some way. How d'Artagnan ties in with those is anyone's guess. Perhaps something from his past come back to haunt him."

Aramis shook his head.

"He's a farm boy from Gascony. I doubt there is much in his past that would warrant such associations."

"People can surprise you," Flee replied. "They might be connections of his father."

"A possibility I suppose," said Aramis. "However we know as little about the man as we do about the current situation and the only one who could illuminate us about the first currently lies delirious with fever."

"He grows worse then?" asked Flee.

"By each hour," said Aramis.

Nodding Flee turned her back on the two musketeers and wandered closer to the window.

"Do you remember The Dark Ember?" she asked, causing Porthos' frown to deepen.

"Only by reputation, same as most people."

"Well that's where you need to start," said Flee. "A few that I spoke to called her the Siren but she goes by other names just as often. Be careful, for all accounts there are few that survive searching for her and none who survive finding her."

"Perhaps they did not have the right motivation," replied Porthos, already leading Aramis out of the door.

_**I meant to have this chapter up much sooner but life is a chaotic thing and for three quarters of a week the chapter stood half finished on my laptop staring at me solemnly. I hope you enjoyed reading the piece and please leave a review if you have the time. I know vaguely where this plot is going but who knows what will happen between now and the final fifth segment!**_


	3. Chapter 3

The Dark Embers

"Now what can I do for you two lovely gentleman," said the Lady d'Moise, smiling at the two musketeers standing in her salon. She kept one hand carefully treaded through the mess of curls pied neatly around her skull, absently playing with the long silver pins that kept it all in place. Porthos watched that hand carefully, his own itching towards his belt and empty space where his pistol had been until very recently. She was older than him and age had started to creep in at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She'd be in her fifties at a guess, perhaps older if time had been especially kind. But even so she was a lithe figure, grey eyes darting across the room from exit to exit, only occasionally landing on the two musketeers. Porthos thought back to the scores of armed men he'd seen dotting the house as Aramis and himself had been led towards her ladyship's quarters.

"Was it really necessarily to have us surrender our arms?" asked Aramis, his own stance more relaxed than Porthos'. Unlike Porthos who had remained by the door, Aramis had meandered his way across the room, complimenting her ladyship's taste the entire way and then taken up position next to one of the heavily curtained windows. He slipped one hand behind the drapes to find the windows thick with dust and grime from the streets below. Clearly her ladyship was not a fan of sunlight, or perhaps she simply didn't want anyone looking in.

"We live in dangerous times gentlemen," she answered, shifting in her seat just slightly but turning her allowing her eyes to finally settle on Aramis' face. She smiled softly but Porthos could still see the edges underneath. There wasn't a trusting bone in Lady d'Moise's entire body. Hardly surprising when you were involved in as many shady deals as she was.

A small smile flickered across Aramis' lips in response and he turned away from her gaze to place his hat down on one of the small side tables, leaving his hands free.

"And why would you think that the King's musketeers might wish you harm?" he asked.

"Did I say that?" asked Lady d'Moise, her smile twitched before smoothing out. "I think you must have misunderstood my meaning," she said.

"But why else would you disarm us so thoroughly?" Aramis asked, taking a step forward and allowing the curtain to fall back against the wall, his hands clasping behind his back. "We made no attempt to hide who we were. Surely there would be no need for concern towards our motivations in coming here?"

"And what if you were not musketeers?" asked Lady d'Moise. "Was it not just a few months ago that one of your brothers-in-arms was accused of murder when in fact it was an imposter who carried out the crimes in his name?"

"She's got a point," Porthos grunted, shrugging his shoulder when Aramis cast a look that clearly said _stay quiet_.

"But still," continued Aramis. "Why the need for such concern in regards to your safety."

"Why does anyone cause harm to another person gentleman. I am not a poor woman and as such certain requirements must be taken into account. What business is it of yours if I wish to protect myself." Her fingers moved closer to the silver pins.

"Of course madam," smiled Aramis. "You must protect yourself and your assets. Even if those methods may be somewhat unorthodox."

Porthos noticed the muscle along her jaw line leap beneath the skin.

"I do not know what you mean," she said, her voice and features tightening. "Are you insinuating something sir?"

"My apologies Madam d'Moise," said Aramis. "We're not insinuating anything. We're simply here to find out what you can tell us about the Dark Embers." He twisted sharply to his left as one of the silver pins from her hair sailed past him and embedded itself in the door.

"Gua-" The rest of her sentence was cut off by a muffled scream as Aramis' gloved hand curled over her mouth. He scowled as her teeth bit into the soft material, his free hand looping one of the curtain ties from the window around her wrists and pulling the noose tight so that she wouldn't be able to hurl any more pins at him or Porthos. Satisfied she wouldn't break free he ushered her back into her seat and leant in close so that only see could hear him.

"I am truly sorry for this treatment my lady," he said, watching as her eyes flashed furiously across his face and colour rose in her cheeks. "Once we are ready to leave we shall release you, no worse for wear and in the same condition as we found you. You have no need to fear us. That is unless you decide to keep some very important information out of our reach. You see a friend of ours has been poisoned, and he will die unless we find out what was used. So you are going to tell us which member of the Dark Embers has ordered our friends death and we shall demand answers of them instead. I am not a cruel person my lady, but I'm afraid that fear can bring out the worst in people and right now I am very afraid my lady. Absolutely terrified. So when I removed my hand you will not scream, you will not call for help and you most certainly will not lie. If you do any of these things I may be forced to commit an act of the likes for which I will never forgive myself for. But as I said, fear brings out the worst in people, and you do not want to see me at my worst."

Some of the colour has seeped from Lady d'Moise's completion as Aramis spoke, leaving an ashen grey colour in its wake.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

Lady d'Moise nodded slowly and Aramis pulled his hand an inch or so away from her lip. Enough space for her to speak, but easy enough to close if she decided to go back on her word.

"You have it all wrong," she spluttered. "I barely know the people you are looking for. I don't have any idea about the motivations of their group."

Porthos snorted loudly.

"We've been watching your house since yesterday afternoon," he said, crossing his arms across his chest. "I doubt the cardinal has as many little spies running back and forth."

"They're not spies," spat Lady d'Moise, turning her attention to Porthos for a moment before Aramis yanked it back to him.

"Then what are they?" he asked. "What do they do for you?"

Lady d'Moise hesitated, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"I really should not say. Siren would have my head served on a platter."

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," Porthos grunted. "I was planning on doing something similar with her myself."

Lady d'Moise shook her head.

"But that's just it," she said. "Siren cannot be the one you are looking for. She's the one who ordered everyone in the order to steer clear of the musketeers!"

"And?" asked Porthos. "What's so special about Siren not wanting to get tangled up with the musketeers. I thought operating in the shadows was the speciality for your lot."

Lady d'Moise shook her head again, more fiercely this time.

"This order was recent. Around the same time as your brother-in-arms was arrested. The one by the name of Athos."

Aramis' hands pulled away completely and he took a step back, leaving Lady d'Moise shivering in her chair. She was not an easily frightened women but she knew desperation could twist the mind like nothing else, and while she would not call herself weak she knew that her own strength would not match up to that of the King's soldiers.

"The orders were given when d'Artagnan arrived in Paris," he said. "But surely that must be a coincidence. No one would have taken notice of a lone boy arriving in the city. How would that of drawn attention from the likes of the Dark Embers."

"They're linked," Lady d'Moise told him. "I was curious about it myself so I had someone look into it quietly. We may have been ordered to keep away from the musketeers but some of Siren's closest lieutenants were keeping tabs on the garrison. Keeping tabs on someone in particular. They never seemed to interfere which suggests that whoever Siren was watching was someone that she wanted to keep in the dark. It must have been someone important though because Siren would never deal out resources of those likes to just anyone."

"They were watching d'Art," said Porthos. "But why?"

"I'm not sure," said Lady d'Moise. "I'm assuming that he's important to Siren somehow. Very important."

"How could d'Artagnan be important to the leader of the Dark Embers?" said Porthos. "They have their hands in everything from smuggling to assassination. Before Paris, d'Artagnan was a farm boy from Gascony. There can't possibly be a connection."

"It doesn't matter if you believe me or not," said Lady d'Moise. "But I'm telling you that the Dark Embers cannot be involved in the attack on the boy. If anything they would have tried to prevent it before any of you even had an inkling of what was going on."

Aramis ran his hand through his hair and turned away from Lady d'Moise.

"Are you telling me, my lady, that really we are on the same side. That both ourselves and the Dark Embers wish to keep d'Artagnan safe?"

"I suppose, in a way." replied Lady d'Moise, her eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Why?" Aramis laughed. "Because it seems that instead of telling us half the story you should be summoning one of those little runners of yours to give Siren a message."

"A message." Lady d'Moise repeated, her voice coming out in a whisper. "Why would I do that?"

"Because," said Aramis, "you are going to summon Siren here. Tonight in fact."

Lady d'Moise swallowed heavily, and for a moment Porthos thought she might faint in her seat.

"I cannot!" she squeaked. "She would never come herself and even if she did send someone in her place they would most likely be ordered to kill us for daring to summon her in such a manner."

Aramis remained where he was above her.

"I wasn't asking Lady d'Moise. I was giving you an order. If needs must I will write the words for you."

Lady d'Moise swallowed again, her frame slumped against her chair as Aramis loomed over her. She nodded once and Aramis glanced back at Porthos before waving in the direction of a desk sat against one of the walls.

"Now," he said, Porthos rattling around behind him. "Let me tell you what needs to be written."

_**Hey everyone, sorry it's been so long since the last update. Only two left to go and the story will be complete so there is really no excuse. I may stretch the story to six segments, but I'm going to see how the next two go first. Thanks for reading and thank you to all my lovely reviewers, especially the ones who are so lovely as to give me constructive criticism as well as praise. I adore you for it. Cheerio for now.**_


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